


In The Court Of Liars

by WatercolorConstellations



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kinda, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatercolorConstellations/pseuds/WatercolorConstellations
Summary: Jaskier doesn't want to deal with his witcher in the aftermath of the dragon hunt, so he wanders, finding himself back home with his best friend. She decides in turn to drag him on several adventures of their own, but several years later Jaskier hears word of Geralt being in danger, and with new allies at his back returns for his witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Characters, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 189





	In The Court Of Liars

**Author's Note:**

> mkay so i'll be the first to admit this is kinda rough, i didn't do a whole lot of editing and i don't write a ton, but here's an Attempt, let me know what you think!  
> mostly unbetad and written by someone who doesn't know grammar and generally makes a lot of mistakes on the keyboard so lemme know if you spot anything you want me to fix

Jaskier had sworn to himself that he had learned his lesson the last time the witcher had left him behind-ok _probably_ not, and there was no _guarantee_ Jaskier himself would seek out his grumpy old friend one day; but for now, he occupied himself with other things. He knew the witcher had been tired of him, and perhaps he was a bit much for many people, so he could deal with giving Geralt some space.

He knew too that he hadn’t deserved the way the witcher had spoken to him, but the words had hurt, striking where they had been intended to, to lodge themselves under his breastbone and behind his eyes like so many grains of sand. For weeks he had simply wandered aimlessly between villages, drowning his sorrows in whatever weak drink he could find. He had walked until dust was ground into his skin and his feet felt worked to the bone, until his perfectly tailored clothes were crumpled and stained with too many nights in the woods.

Then he had turned back, plodding down dirt roads mechanically until his feet lead him back to the gates of Oxenfurt, staring at the buildings of his old college with a blank stare void of his usual relentless energy.

His return had barely been noted in the eyes of those passing, but before long quickly approaching footsteps had registered and he had turned slowly to see his friend Sofiya rushing toward him. She was a force of nature, she had to be to keep her position at the college. Soon she had wrapped him in strong arms and the smell of old paper, her laughter was sharp like sunrise, stained with the pungent smell of cinnamon and roses; and he found he had missed her so much more than he had let himself admit.

She had herded him along for days, scolding loudly and nudging him in whatever direction she pleased, though this usually meant new clothing for him and volumes of books for her, her voice ringing out loud and clear through vaulted ceilings in the library as she called to him, days spent in sunshine, new smells and trying her absolutely bizarre cooking to keep her happy.

It was one of those mornings again, where the air was still and soft, the sun barely risen as he sat on the sill of the window, head propped in his hands and eyes half closed as he stewed in “what-ifs.” Sofiya had burst in, waving one hand about her head frantically, the other clutching a sheaf of yellowed papers with the delicacy you usually noticed between mother and child.

She had always shared in his fascination with the more unusual parts of their world, she had taught him the reckless bravery he held when he had first met the witcher with her late-night rantings about the dynamics of worlds they didn’t-couldn’t understand. Her pet project for years, for most of those he had traveled with Geralt, had involved the cursed forests to the south of the college, greedily scouring any and every record for mentions of the trees that seemed to drive people away. What she held now was the sum of these years of work, a sheaf of paper thick enough to give someone blunt force trauma if she smacked them with it.

Her eyes were wild and unseeing, usually impeccably straight hair mussed around her face in a bird’s nest of truly epic proportions, and her freckles bold against her flushed complexion. She grinned wildly at him, feral in her excitement as she explained she had finally been approved to leave the grounds with a guarantee to come back to her job in a few months; he knew this meant she was preparing to ask him to play along with whatever scheme she had, both of them venturing into the creepy-and probably incredibly haunted forest.

The journey to the edge of the hallowed trees was uneventful, more so than even the most mundane trips he had taken in recent memory. The foliage whispered restlessly, and a shiver had climbed his spine even as Sofiya had bounced happily on the balls of her feet. The trees drooped with ancient lichens and moss, shadowed and quiet but for the distant movement of the inhabitants.

The whole place seemed to radiate a kind of quiet animosity, an unsettling feeling unless you had been traveling with a man who barely tolerated you for years, or else you were entirely oblivious to the forest’s dislike of you. Sofiya seemed to be the latter, gently tethering her horse as she flung herself between the trees like an excitable child. As she went, she stopped to make note of patches of flowers growing in sunlight, trees where children had carved their initials after being dared by their friends, and padding softly over thick carpets of emerald moss.

With each discovery the woods seemed less like a mausoleum for whatever damned souls wandered cursed forests, and more like a place that resided outside time and the world they themselves were used to. Sofiya had inevitably discovered her gift for following long abandoned footpaths, tracking footsteps that hadn’t held true for too many years. Jaskier had reluctantly deigned to follow her into whatever mess she had signed the both of them up for, rationalizing that it couldn’t possibly be worse than the usual messes he had dragged Geralt into and vice versa.

Surprisingly enough the forest hadn’t been filled with classically modeled traps and riddled with monsters, instead it was a tangled labyrinth soaked in magic and a mysterious and niggling feeling of being watched. The hills they trekked swarmed with beasts, not monsters, and those they managed to spot disappeared into dark leaves with bare whispers and glowing eyes. Sofiya found path after path, each leading in the same direction, deep into the webs of magic that draped over their shoulders, thick and staticky like cobwebs.

There was no time in the woods, no sunrise and sunset though the light came and went as it pleased, waltzing through the underbrush heralded by swarming puffs of iridescent fireflies and swirling tangles of sharp mist that seemed to croon softly at them. The impossibilities of this otherworldly place captivated the both of them, and they took this fascination and his it away in their hearts because as much as Jaskier was a storyteller he know when a story couldn’t be told for fear that someone would pursue that beauty for selfish reasons; and as much as Sofiya was a researcher, she knew the limits of the faith anyone had in her word.

So they held the miracle of this place in bruised and travel weary hands as they walked, one foot in front of the other as the millennia old tracks under their feet seemed to grow younger, deeper, the overgrown path turning to dirt in place of moss, then to deep footprints carved into the earth, delicate in their depth. The prints themselves the size of those of someone smaller even then Jaskier, who was barely a few inches shorter than Sofiya, but she loomed tall and lithe over him and never let him forget it.

When the footsteps they followed had finally turned to long worn stone they had found themselves at the foot of a building that could’ve been anything, the longer they looked the wilder it seemed. It was close to a pavilion Jaskier had thought, open and soaked with a sense of freedom that flew with the winds through the structure, weaving in and out of the intricate columns as the two of them climbed the roughly hewn and ivy coated stairs.

In the center of the building there was a raised dais carved from the stump of a tree wide as he was tall and white as bone, something so ancient that his eyes ached just from laying eyes on it. Perched on top of the dais was a person who shared that impossible age, their face strange and ethereal, shifting like water and blurrily out of focus for a moment before they snapped into place as if becoming corporeal in that moment.

Their face was foreign, skin darker than any they had seen in the region, contrasting with the rings they sat upon like ink on paper. Against the impossibly dark complexion, bright starbursts of snowy freckles and nebulous birthmarks blossomed across every inch of uncovered skin. Their eyes were flat slate, wise beyond their years and the color of eternity, though the color was dull and persistent they sparkled with vibrance and mischief. Their features were rounded and flat, lips full and bright teeth peeking through a smile filled with exuberance for life. Their hair was a tangled mess of green brown, piled artfully and held into place with what looked like an enormous thorn, razor sharp and delicately threaded through a mess of braids and tangled curls.

At his side Sofiya stumbled clumsily and a dreamy sigh left her lips, she had always had a soft spot for people who looked like they could tear you apart, a bit of Wildness under the skin like an itch. If there was anything they were it was wild, even as they prowled closer, their joints bending a bit too fluidly for them to be anything but a wildcat.

Their smile was fanged and enthusiastic and they introduced themselves without a name, explaining that they never could remember them. They said they had chosen to be a woman centuries ago, and had settled in the forest long before the reaches of their history. Sofiya named her Pavela, for the sharpness of her smile and the feral edge to her eyes.

Pavela was not one to stay in one place for long, and her occupation of the forest south of Oxenfurt had grated on her nerves. In return for the company of a bard and a scholar she promised to show them the adventures she had known in the years she had traveled with the wind. She hated being stationary without a purpose, hers had been to protect the lands from whatever forces had threatened them, a manifestation borne of the Earth to protect all those who walked her lands.

In the ages of peace she had picked the area so settle and fade, but the great culling of the elves and the rise of Nilfgard had stirred even these far reaches, disturbing her atrophy and slowly waking her to her full scope in the way only gods do, over the decades since her stirring she had slowly reached herself out to survey the scenery, searching for her purpose to hold close once again.

Their intrusion on her lands had been the last straw and now she was free once again, filled to the brim with the bluster of the whipping winds, the heat of a forge, the blistering cold of the arctic ice and the rumble of shifting earth. She was a disaster of a person, crackling with power in a way that made those surrounding her feel as if they could take on the world.

Sofiya and Pavela had immediately been drawn to each other, dancing back and forth teasingly as the three of them dashed across the plains alongside wild horses, as they stood defiantly against the incoming tide of soldiers from Nilfgard in a remote village of Cintra they defended, as they screamed alongside the crackling thunder of a hurricane.

The three of them traveled together for a handful of years, getting stronger as the wildness they had set free wove together into spun tapestries of their respective strengths. Jaskier’s voice rang with the echoes of lashing winds, the edge of ice creeping into his breath when he needed it. Sofiya’s eyes opened all the way, she became a seer in her own right, connected to the spirits of the world with a strong and steady earthen tether she called upon to know they’d make it out ok. As they became less and less mortal under Pavela’s blessing, youth they should’ve rightfully left behind surged through their limbs with more strength than ever; the humanity the two of them brought to the immortal’s spirit tamed the feral glint in her smile.

The tree of them headed off the war as best they could sometimes, but even though three might be better than one, without a call to rally under, without the lost princess of Cintra, the people refused to fight alongside them. Instead they shaped the violence as best they could, pressing armies away from refugee camps and sending warnings ahead of the building storm.

Jaskier watched two of his best friends finally admit their feelings towards each other months into their journey in the midst of a snowstorm lit by the full moon through gaps in the clouds; the two lovebirds had been entangled in each other on the sill of an inn’s window, gazing out at the glittering flakes of snow and ice. Since they had declared their intent, they had been insufferably sweet with each other until finally he helped them pick out a beautiful cottage on the coast, where all three of them stayed more often than not.

Jaskier was in charge of picking the color of every wall, instructing them as the two of them laughed helplessly when he condemned the shades of blue that clashed hideously with the rest of their decorations. It took months for the house by the sea to become a home, in that time Pavela taught them both how to hunt the beasts gone feral with rage, leading them to watch by the wayside as she fought gryphons and sirens; the latter of which Jaskier rescued her from when she forgot to stop listening.

With each adventure he wrinkled his nose at their sappiness, grown ever more potent with time, Pavela growing Sofiya’s favorite flowers just outside her windowsill as she worked. In return Sofiya would write poems declaring Pavela’s intensity to be like the full scope of a starry night sky. They were a pair like he hadn’t seen before, two sides of the same coin untarnished where others grew dull with time. Each day they seemed to find something new about the other to love, from the way Sofiya bounced as she walked, waving her hands as she lectured an empty room, to the way Pavela would get lost in thought sometimes; paying no mind to the vines that curled around her ankles like affectionate pets.

Pavela supported Sofiya alongside Jaskier when she decided to quit her job as a professor at the college, exhausted of the constant fight for traction in a world men had built for themselves, instead the two of them promised to begin another school one day, when the world was quiet.

He kept his place in their odd little trio, and though he had grown stronger in both body and mind in the time he had spent with them, he could still feel where something was missing from his life, and he had a niggling suspicion that it must be Geralt.

They knew he had found his child surprise, courtesy of one of Sofiya’s newfound prophetic dreams, which was the only reason they hadn’t bothered to seek him out earlier; figuring that he must be on the run with her somewhere. They had discussed it and finally decided to leave them be, though they made sure that Geralt ever needed Jaskier there were enough people to show him the way to the paths they walked regularly between the warfront and the peace of their little home.

At least, they had intended to leave him be, but when Sofiya woke screaming anxiously about losing the White Wolf and the lost princess to the unseelie court, it was time to make a decision. It was never up to debate whether or not Jaskier was going, there was nothing to keep him from his witcher now that he knew he needed help.

Ultimately it was decided that Jaskier and Pavela would go, Sofiya was going to stay home with the baby the two had adopted earlier in the year, because he had a cold and Sofiya was more the nurturing type than her wife.

Pavela hadn’t visited the unseelie court in centuries, but their brand of chaos ran parallel to her own, even if her own madness had never struck a chord with destruction for the sake of destruction. On such short notice, she had managed to arrange a meeting between himself and the unseelie queen, though they refused to allow Pavela herself within their walls.

As they had approached the edges of the territory of the unseelie court, she had pulled him aside, hidden in a little hollow away rom the world. There she had whispered to him all she knew about fae magics and gently pressed lips tingling with power to his forehead, leaving behind a mark of deep indigo lips for a moment before it faded into his skin.

In compromise she had stationed herself still and solid against the base of the tree which marked the unseelie’s passage. Her lips were drawn tight and her eyes gleamed uneasily, her nebulous markings shifting uneasily across her face. Jaskier held his lute close even as he tried to keep his spine stiff and straight, his face blank of the misgivings he had. The both of them had been feeling an uncertain nausea that seemed to permeate the very air. Her own explanation assumed that the unseelie court had changed since her last dealings with their people, neither of them expected a friendly welcome.

The escort the queen had sent to fetch the bard consisted of two of the fae, eyes sharp and predatory, glittering as they watched the two approach with twin wide-slashed grins. Neither was visibly armed but they stood so still you could almost mistake them for trees in the forest if they hadn’t shone with a kind of shimmering haze that shifted as they moved.

When they moved, it was so fluidly Jaskier couldn’t see their limbs move, almost as if they had simply appeared at his side, one of them clinging to his arm in a way that would’ve seemed affectionate if their claws hadn’t been digging into the meat of his arm.

The fae guards didn’t say so much as a word, snickering to each other quietly as they dragged Jaskier through the open doorway to nowhere in the middle of the woods. The last glimpse of Pavela he caught was of her crouched near the passageway, a subtle snarl of displeasure carving itself into her face if you knew where to look.

The passage to the unseelie court was shadowed and cold, lit by unnaturally glistening sickly yellow torches. The ground underfoot echoed emptily with every footstep and the ceiling disappeared into shadow over spindly trusses carved with abstract images that left the viewer with a sense of impending doom. Jaskier felt as if he was walking with a knife to his back, even though the guards flanking him had never displayed force of any kind.

The air was thin and smelled of ozone, and Jaskier’s head swiveled back and forth curiously as they stepped into a courtyard, taking in the twisted sculptures that had once been gargoyles perched on eaves dripping with dying ivy. The plants looked sickly and the sunlight crept across the pavestones like a kicked animal, wobbling and weak despite the seemingly clear sky. The stones were old, incredibly so, but lose and rattling like bare bone rather than worn slate.

He paced across the open space at the guards’ prompting to an enormous archway housing a great oak door gouged with deep scars resembling scratches from an enormous beast or a great many swords. The door itself swung inward as if it had never been closed at all, silent and light as a whispered exhale.

The hall beyond was brilliantly lit, lights and candles radiating the same sickening off-yellow glittering light suspended and cascading off every surface. The edges of the room were cluttered with figures in shapes Jaskier’s mind couldn’t really comprehend so he looked away before the pressure building in his head gave way to pain. In the center of the room there was a long elegant table, strangely shaped as to curve and rise in the center for the queen to sit above her subjects.

The table was set for a feast, though each of the members of the unseelie court seated behind it was shrouded so thickly in shadow their edges seemed to fade away; in the midst of the hair-raising oddities in the strange place sat the queen who looked…normal.

The queen was so incredibly unremarkable that Jaskier had to do several double takes before he could assure himself that it was indeed her that held the power of the room. Her face was pleasant enough, if unremarkable enough that he would never be able to quite describe in detail, even her gown was excruciatingly normal. This façade of mundanity was perhaps the most terrifying thing he had seen in the entire unseelie court, and the hair on his arms prickled at the feeling of being watched.

Suddenly, he shook himself from his daze and fell into a deep and respectful bow to the queen, murmuring politely, “Good day your Majesty.”

She smiled indulgently, sweetly even, but when she spoke it was with a voice like rusty nails, dripping blood and sandpaper and he could barely hold back a wince, “Welcome dear bard, will you give us your name?”

Her smile was crooked and wrong in a way he couldn’t describe, and he steeled himself, remembering his friend’s blessing, “I cannot _give_ you my name generous lady, though you may call me Dandelion.”

She twitched before responding, bones shifting under her skin as if they weren’t truly connected at all to each other or anything else, “What is your business in my court little bard?” she asked, syrupy sweet with a knowing light behind her eyes.

He dragged his signature cocky grin onto his face, and with a flourish of his arm responded in a lighter tone, “I do believe my witcher and a friend of his have stayed here for quite some time, I have come to fetch him.”

“Oh, but we do quite _enjoy_ having them here don’t we?” she cooed, nodding as the room filled with hissing whispers of agreement.

He took a half step forward, “I am prepared to compensate you for your gracious hosting of the both of them, if I am given your word that they-and myself will be released promptly to my friend waiting beyond your borders to continue on our way without your court’s influence on our lives.”

To his surprise the queen laughed at this, loudly, with an echo like an avalanche and crackling flames; “My, you are a bold one bard, and quite a bit smarter than your dear witcher at that, what _exactly_ do you propose to offer in place of your lovely little friends?”

Jaskier’s throat clenched at the question, and his grin began to feel brittle even as he forced the words past his teeth, “In return for this I offer you the best ballad ever played in these halls majesty, only to be heard by yourself and those you deem worthy.”

Her nails clacked against the table as she contemplated his offer, smile spreading impossibly wider every moment she spent looking at him, as he barely stood his ground without shuddering. Finally, she asked, “And _what_ , oh dear bard, will we get if you _fail_ in this endeavor?”

“Majesty if I am to fail in my efforts, I offer myself to your service for as long as you see fit for my frivolous use of your time.”

Her face was smug, smile straining the seams of her face even as her eyes became heavy lidded with satisfaction. She leaned forward in her seat, neck stretching unnaturally as her joints roiled under the skin. She examined him from head to foot as a predator sizes prey, “Very well,” she finally spat, the words tumbling like stones from her lips, “I accept your bargain on behalf of my court, bard Dandelion.”

At this his smile became fractionally more genuine, and he moved to adjust his lute in his arms. Fiddling with the strings for the barest of moments, he glanced up to wait for a cue from the queen. She was staring down at him condescendingly, and her twisted smile contorted as she spoke, “Before we put your wager to the test, should we not show you the prize you play for?”

Heart in his throat, he watched as the jostling shadows at the margins of the room parted for a set of guards identical to those who had escorted him there, though that set was still at his back. In turn they drifted off to the side revealing Geralt and Cirilla behind them, the two walking jerkily as if they were strung on a set of puppeteer’s wires. Neither of their faces expressed recognition, or any emotion at all, instead staring with the empty eyes of people under enchantment. Geralt’s face was blank of its usual resident aggression, instead settled in a façade of bland contentment that looked worryingly placid.

A shiver crawled up Jaskier’s spine as the air seemed charged for a moment, prickling at his skin as he found the resolve to tear his eyes from the two, focusing instead on the lute in his hands as the queen mockingly commanded him to play.

He didn’t dare let his concentration falter, fingers flying across the strings smoother than they ever had before as the melody took shape with gentle guidance. His voice rang out clear and strong, cutting through the darkness; he would never be able to remember what words he sang. Into the song he forced everything he had, swooping with the heartbreak he had seen and felt. His mouth burned like mint as his song unfolded from his mouth in a series of notes burnished with hidden power, staining the light around him a deep hearth orange.

The blue of his doublet clashed with the oily presentation of the court, and the bright cobalt seemed to brighten as he sang of open skies and falling in love with people and places and a special shade of gold. His voice trilled like that of a songbird as he praised the meaning of meaningless moments that happened several times a day, learning to see what was meant by tiny gestures. He sang of the view from each home he’s had over the years, the smell of jasmine following him as he paced the length of the room and gently crooned about flowers that only bloomed at midnight, how he had discovered them with his first love under a full moon.

He didn’t only sing of his own life, but those he had touched or simply heard of, legends and farmers and the whole of everything; some of the lyrics were unused scribbles in long forgotten notebooks, stanzas that had never quite fit into place but now fell together like puzzle pieces. Words that had been sealed away in his chest poured from his lips in a cascade that had the unseelie court swaying, enthralled.

The queen’s gaze didn’t grow entranced like the others, instead pained and vicious as he prowled the length of her hall, lilting voice weaving a ballad the likes of which she couldn’t recall hearing before. Her stare narrowed and he shivered subtly as his frame was wracked with the blisteringly cold gales of the north, tearing through his fine silks to chill him to the bone and still he stood. He stood and sang as the hall heated, dark and dusky and reeking of sulfur, until sweat poured down his cheeks and slipped over his hands, burning through the soles of his shoes to leave charred marks alongside the scrapes left by almost-frostbite.

Jaskier simply sang louder as he was buffeted by winds unlike the ones commanded by his voice, telling of adventure even as the gauzy streaks of pain found in fogs of chemicals drifted across his nose. He refused to falter as they tried all manner of distraction, ravaging him without ever laying a hand on his person, offering comforts beyond his wildest dreams if he would only pause for a moment. He drew courage from their desperation, blue eyes flashing with shards of true sky as he sang louder as the queen sucked the air from his lungs.

The blessing laid upon him by a desperate friend burned under his skin, lending him the strength to stand for the eternity he played, intricate gossamer images spun of his music forming a magic of their own as they protected him from the worst damage. He dared not falter or stop even as his battered fingers caught and began to bleed, pressing his cracking and breaking voice to continue in a new way, lower and more guttural as he lost the higher scales.

Blood dripped from cracked lips and shredded throat to stain his jacket black, caked in pain even as his voice flew cool and soft like a fresh breath of air in the solemn stillness of not-death that held the unseelie court still. His fingers were cut to the bone, lute strings encrusted in ruby droplets that changed his playing to something primal and haunting, but no less heartfelt.

He had played forever and a day, and had never played at all because such was the way of things in courts like these, when the queen inclined her head to admit defeat and the last notes of a song that would never be heard again by anyone faded and soaked into the walls.

“Take your prize bard,” she declared regally, “you have truly earned it with this gift of yours, but do not falter in your path home.”

It was not a threat but a warning, and Jaskier bowed his head, swimming with exhaustion, to acknowledge her generosity. “Thank you, oh great queen,” he said, mouth dripping with blood too sweet to be human, “I will not forget the greatness of your presence.”

Jaskier mustered what confidence he could, striding forward to where Geralt and Cirilla stood lifelessly, slinging his lute onto his back so he had a hand free to pull each of them along. His hands burned in agony when he clasped each of their wrists with his torn fingertips, but he dared not let go. They followed in a daze, both gently plodding in his wake as he dramatically swept out of the hall.

Jaskier’s vision swum with blotches of black and his head pounded, each step was a struggle but he kept his back straight and gait steady as he left the way he had come. The rushing of blood in his ears obscured most of the sound behind them as he pulled them into the tunnel that would lead back outside.

The passage seemed longer and narrower than it had been when he entered, the walls almost visibly closing in on the trio. Reluctantly, he sped his pace, sacrificing his even stride to stumble along quickly, yanking Geralt and Cirilla by their wrists, frightened at how they remained limp and lifeless. Pulling them along felt as if he was pulling against something, as if the strings attached to their limbs were snapping one by one even as the corridor shrunk.

By the time Jaskier could see the light of outdoors the walls were close enough to press his companions together, the princess huddled involuntarily against Geralt’s bulk. He didn’t dare look back, instead pushing aside the sparks in his vision to increase his speed again, until he was loping along what was left of the path with his friends dragged behind him.

His whole body shook violently with the exertion, sweat poured from his battered brow, each ache and pain making itself known as he launched himself from the lip of the passageway to land awkwardly on the grass.

As soon as he appeared Pavela was by his side, her cool hands brushing gently over his face. His brow furrowed as he looked at her, thoughts sluggish with pain, and he spat a clump of grass onto the ground before he spoke, “What is your shared name with your husband?” he grated in his ruined voice.

Confused, she murmured back, “Jaskier? Sofiya’s my _wife_ , and we decided that we wouldn’t share a name.”

His lips split open again as he grinned back at her, finally losing his grip on Geralt and Cirilla’s wrists, then his legs promptly folded underneath him, and his swirling vision gave way to blackness. The last thing he felt were Pavela’s arms catching him before he could strike the ground, pulling him into her chest.

When Geralt awoke he immediately tensed, launching himself out of the bed and onto the ground without a sound, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. The last thing he remembered was Roach’s warning whinny of alarm and a jagged smile in the darkness.

The room was dark, but it looked like an inn. He had woken in a bed and his snarling gaze lit on the princess, tucked into the other side under the blankets. He rushed to her, gently checking her without rousing her to his presence. He gently waved one hand under her nose, relaxing marginally as he felt her slow and steady breath against his palm. Now that he was taking a moment to register what was going on outside of blind panic, he noticed the both of them had been dressed in clothes that were not their own. The clothing was fine, nobleman’s fare that suited neither of them, and suited their current residence even less.

Geralt felt stripped bare without his weapons, and he bared his teeth in distaste. The room was sparingly lit, and the source lay on the other side of a partition in the center of the room. Reluctantly Geralt crept away from the sleeping princess, making his way toward the screen and what lay beyond when he heard a soft hoarse whimper and a whisper responding to it, “I know dear friend,” the voice murmured sadly, “you will be alright.”

In the flickering firelight Geralt could see two more figures, one laid prone across the second bed in the room, the second leaned over them, gently sweeping splayed hands over their body, those hands glowing with faint blue green light. He recognised magic when he saw it and shuffled forward, staring as the magician tipped their head so their profile was highlighted with the megar light cast by the flames.

He resisted the urge to snarl at their unnatural appearance, teeth drawing back as he sank into a protective crouch once more. The mysterious figure sighed softly, devastation in their voice as they spoke again, “I will not pretend you are not there Geralt of Rivia, and I will not permit attacks on my person; it’s been a long week for all of us.”

He was confused by the sentiment, and growled softly, “What do you want?”

“I pose no threat to you,” she hissed back, “I came because Jaskier bade me to, and look where his heroics have gotten him this time!”

As she spoke she had turned to face him truly, and her stormsloud eyes flashed, jagged with streaks of silver like lightning and hair falling in her face. She looked exhausted as he looked closer, slouching ever so slightly over the figure in front of her as if to protect them.

At the mention of Jaskier’s name a jolt of dread had shot through him and he straightened, brusquely approaching where she sat on the edge of the bed frame. One of his worst fears lay there, realized in its entirety. Jaskier was unconscious, that much was clear. His hands were swaddled thick with bandages and more spiraled up his arms, some peeking out of a shirt soaked with dry blood, he was coated in a sheen of sweat and his cheeks were sunken and sallow as if he had been ill or malnourished for a long while.

As he stared Jaskier shifted, moaning as he did so and coughing harshly, the fit took him for several seconds, hacking and shaking with the effort, breath grating against his ruined lips. His lips, which had seemed painted red now dripping thickened drops of blood that the stranger wiped away as soon as they came.

She hummed soft reassurances to him as she worked, smoothing his matted hair away from his face, and he turned into the touch of her still glowing palms. With fresh horror Geralt noted that Jaskier’s hair had paled to white in small curls, enough to be noticeable if not devastating to his vanity inclined bard.

“Why haven’t you fixed him?” he spat. She looked shocked, then angrier than before, lips curling with disgust as he continued, “You have magic, why isn’t he fixed?”

She seemed to calm a bit at this, sneering but not sizzling in anger as she had been before, “I am doing my best witcher, these wounds are deeper than most, and reinforced in magics that go against my own, there are none that walk this earth that could do more right now.”

“Magic.” He grunted, more statement than question, but she still nodded before continuing.

“Indeed,” she sighed in frustration, “he heard that you and the princess had been taken by the unseelie, and insisted that we should help, though they would only take him, he sacrificed much for your release.”

His hackles rose at the mention of Cirilla’s identity, “How-”

“I fight for the true crown of Cintra,” she snapped, “do not worry about my loyalty after I have already helped save your life once today.”

After a moment he spoke again, processing the second half of one of her statements, “How did _Jaskier_ release us from the unseelie court?”

“They would not have let me enter, which was just as well, we do not need war on more fronts, so instead he sought an audience with the queen and struck a bargain; he played for your freedom, then led both yourself and the little lioness to freedom.”

This time Geralt simply hummed in response and she raised an eyebrow before she elaborated, “The unseelie court does not follow rules,” she said warningly, “he played for a week without respite, and they tried every trick they had to dissuade him but he was determined to help you.”

He looked her in the face, taking in her concern and something like insistence on her features. Nodding, he moved closer to the injured bard, reaching out with his own hand to check his temperature, surprised when Jaskier pushed into his hand as he had done with the witch.

She stood slowly, stretching her arms and back from their strained positions as she moved across the room, “Can you watch him for me for a while?” she asked softly, “I must go to retrieve your lost belongings, and inform my family where we are.”

He nodded in acquiescence and settled uncomfortably by Jaskier’s bedside while she swept from the room in a whirl of a heavy traveling cloak and what smelled like cinnamon.

He turned to watch Jaskier intently, taking a gentle hold of his wounded hands and examining it closely. Underneath the layer of bruises and bandages he looked like ha had been doing well for himself, the silks her wore were as fine as ever if more durable and his face showed none of the age he would have expected since their last meeting.

As he thought of that last encounter Geralt burned with shame over how he had treated his friend, and he gently resettled the other’s hand in the nest of blankets the mysterious witch had built. Geralt knew he had no right to the things he had said on that mountain, no right to the anger he had turned on his most loyal companion, and that had eaten away at him even as he had sought out his child surprise.

He wished he had the words to apologize for the way he had treated Jaskier, wished he had the courage to tell the bard just how much he had meant, still meant, to an old witcher who had spent so much of his life without such things as the color Jaskier had brought into his life.

Somehow, as he had pondered his own mistakes, one hand had come to rest, gently cupping Jaskier’s face, thumb smoothing back and forth along one lightly abused cheekbone. Lost in thought and memory, he barely noticed when Jaskier stirred again, this time less violently, and hazy blue eyes stared up at him. “Geralt?” the question was soft, confused, and maybe a bit sad.

Geralt began to hum in response, then paused and spoke, “Yeah Jaskier, it’s me.”

To his surprise Jaskier’s face lit up, eyes clearing as he muttered happily, “I guess that means I did it after all big guy, managed to get all three of us out of that awful place; I mean you wouldn’t _believe_ -”

Geralt cut him off, wincing at how painful his voice sounded with his abused throat, “Thank you Jaskier.”

This time surprise made Jaskier’s face go slack, looking for all the world as if Geralt had struck him rather than thanked him for saving his life. The surprise didn’t last long, Jaskier began to cough as viciously as he had before, the sound tearing out of his lungs as he clumsily spat blood from his abused lips.

Geralt’s entire body flushed cold at the sight, remembering a similar night a long time ago. His brow furrowed angrily as he berated himself, and he gently swiped the blood away from Jaskier’s face.

“Don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for this witcher,” Jaskier choked, “I knew the damn well what the risks were when I walked into that deathtrap for you.”

Pausing in his ministrations for a moment Geralt frowned, speaking slowly as if coming to a realization, “I don’t deserve that Jaskier, not after everything I’ve done.”

Jasier scoffed, or a rough approximation of it, “Not this again, you’re a _good_ man Geralt, you help people, you deserve at least an opportunity to live your life as you are.”

“No,” the witcher muttered gruffly, “I don’t deserve _you_ Jaskier, I don’t deserve to be something you sacrifice yourself for.”

Jaskier’s nose wrinkled in distaste, and one bandaged hand reached up to brush Geralt’s cheek, even as Geralt caught it in the hand that wasn’t hovering over Jaskier’s face, “You don’t get to decide for me witcher.”

Geralt nodded, fidgeting in place for a moment, “I am sorry Jaskier,” he said solemnly, “I should’ve never treated you as I have, you mean…a great deal to me.”

At this, Jaskier struggled up into half sitting position, delicately curling one arm around Geralt’s neck to pull him closer as he gently butted their foreheads together. Geralt’s hands came up around Jaskier’s shoulders to support him, holding him gently as the bard spoke, “You mean everything to me Geralt of Rivia, it has been like that for a long while.”

Geralt’s throat seemed to close, and he was hoarse with emotion when he responded, “You are as important to me Jaskier, and I will try to live to show you that.”

Jaskier’s smile was soft and tired, so Geralt softly lowered him back onto the bed, pausing only when Jaskier squeaked in discomfort and tugged at his tunic. Looking at him with a question in his eyes, Geralt let his bard push and pull him with clumsy hands until they were huddled together on the mattress, Jaskier’s head pillowed on Geralt’s chest and legs tangled hopelessly.

Jaskier looked up at him happily, and giving in to impulse, Geralt leaned down to gently press his lips to Jaskier’s forehead, to the delight of the bard, who simply began to fall asleep against his witcher.

**Author's Note:**

> i totally wrote this because i love the idea of jaskier being the hero to save the day, and also need me some Softness so i made my own


End file.
